Morning Walk

Up Stanyon street, past the cyclery that promises decades of service, and the old firehouse, well-worn wooden steps rise from the sidewalk. They make a quick left, onto a dusty trail tucked between two yards, and then curve up and into the tall acacias that live off the ocean fog.

The damp air doesn’t make it to the ground, leaving the dirt thirsty and only interrupted by an occasional rotten log, ambitious root, or rock that flakes easily underfoot.

The path leads away from the city below, doubling back on itself to gain more height. The only houses that remain visible are those that border the acacias with their backs, showing off their black, opaque windows and tall back patios. At least two of these houses have their backsides ripped open, and the valley between the path and them makes the workers who put them back together look like lego.